Storage Room Secrets
by Allison Jakes
Summary: THE REDEEMER: chapter EIGHT is up! ~ Sydney and Vaughn must learn that every decision has a price.
1. Stolen Embrace

TITLE: Storage Room Secrets [1/?]  
  
AUTHOR: *note, author uses alias, this is not her real name* Ambrose Chavez  
  
EMAIL/FEEDBACK: agent47AChavez@hotmail.com  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Feel free to archive this work as long as you notify me of its location so I can visit the site!  
  
DISCLAIMER: ALIAS is the property of ABC, Touchtone Pictures, Bad Robot Productions, and is the creation of JJ Abrams. Sadly, I have no part in it.  
  
SUMMARY: Sydney and Vaughn must learn that every decision has a price.  
  
RATING: PG-13 *note: every episode is subject to rating changes*  
  
CLASSIFICATION: dramatic romance  
  
AUTHOR'S SPECIAL NOTE: Hello, I hope you enjoy reading this piece. It's a WIP, and assumes that the reader has knowledge of the first season. This story takes place a short time after "Almost Thirty Years". While there is no appearance (yet) made by Sydney's mom in this first chapter, rest assured she'll come up at some point in the series. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and if you have any suggestions, please feel free to email me! *Ambrose  
  
Desire. It poured though him, spread throughout him like a disease by which he would willingly die. Half pleased, half cursing her outfit without any real heat, he welcomed her into the storage room that was theirs.  
  
"Hey." He said easily. It had been a hard week for her, he knew.  
  
It had been a hard week on all of them.  
  
She smiled weakly, lowering herself gracefully onto a crate, and managed to look incredibly sexy while doing so. He gulped a little and had to clear his throat from the tightening that occurred when her tight black skirt rode up an inch or two, and once more when she crossed her legs.  
  
Tearing his gaze from their silky appearance, he forced his eyes to stay trained on her face.  
  
Her eyes were haggard and tired, and for the first time in a long while, there was a dark shadowing beneath them. Bags of burden and failure lay beneath her usually bright, determined eyes. She was tired. She had forgotten to wear gloss, he noticed, as she kept licking her lips, unconsciously turning him on.  
  
Finally, he stared at the top of her head. It was one thing that, perhaps if he tried hard enough, he could think rationally about.  
  
"How've you been?" He felt the need to ask though he knew the answer. He simply wanted her to spill her emotions onto him so at least he could ease her burden, join her in her pain, and help her through the anguish.  
  
She didn't look at him. Instead, she kept her gaze fixated on her black pumps as she circled her ankle restlessly. Her fingers gripped the edge of the crate tightly, her knuckles white.  
  
"I keep thinking, maybe, just maybe…" In the quiet shelter of the storage room, she sounded suddenly small and raw. She heaved a heavy sigh before she continued. "Maybe if I had just hurried a bit more, ran a little faster, been more careful. Maybe it wouldn't have happened."  
  
He nodded silently. He understood how she felt. All the 'what ifs' of life had once plagued him too. The possibilities, he found himself agreeing, were indeed endless.  
  
"It isn't as if you intended for it to happen." He sat on the edge of the crate with her. She moved over to make space for him, and he filled it. "There are risks to this job. We take them willingly. We all do."  
  
"But if I had just done my job better, my father wouldn't have been shot, he wouldn't have a broken arm! He came back to save me, and it cost him!" she said fiercely. She looked up at him. "You wouldn't have almost died."  
  
"You would have done the same for him if roles had been reversed."  
  
"Yeah, but I could have gotten out. He didn't have to. I'm trained to escape in all situations, whether I'm caught, held, and tortured, or just to run from guards. I'm trained to be constantly alert, to notice every minute detail. I would have found a way out."  
  
He smiled thinly. "I have no doubt about that, Sydney. But your father did the right thing. If he had left you there… think about it this way. If he didn't come back to save you, SD-6 would have wondered where you were. You're cover could have been blown. I made it out okay, you didn't have to worry about me. I'm trained to escape and improvise too, Syd."  
  
She nodded. She wouldn't admit it to him, not yet, that she had been sick with worry over him. The only thing that overshadowed her concern was her shock at finding out that her mom was The Man.  
  
"But how can I criticize you for trying to save me?" he sighed. "I would have done the same for you."  
  
She leaned forward, rested her elbow on her bent knee and laid her head in her hand. The headache that pulsed behind her eyes was still there, relentless. The guilt that wracked her heart with every beat wound its way around it and tightened.  
  
"What I mean is, I shouldn't have gotten caught in the first place." Her shoulders were straight, tense with personal disappointment. "I should have seen or heard the guard coming. I should have been able to fight him."  
  
Vaughn crossed his arms across his chest and dropped his head, staring at the floor. Looking up at her again, he tried to think of something to say.  
  
"We can't help everything. We're not always in control, Sydney. We're smart, but we can't underestimate the enemy either. It's a huge mistake if we do. We anticipated resistance and the difficulty of this mission. No, it didn't go off without a hitch, but the important thing is you're safe."  
  
She said nothing.  
  
"Hong Kong is over, Syd. We have other worries that are more immediate. The agency has been keeping tabs on Dixon. For your sake, we're considering having you lay low on counterintelligence for a while." He waited for her protest. It worried him that it didn't come.  
  
"He hasn't reported me yet, but he's thinking about it. He's watching me. He doesn't trust me, Vaughn. I know he doesn't trust me anymore. I can't really blame him." She raised her head from her hand and brushed back her hair, tucked it behind her ear.  
  
Vaughn watched the movement, and uncrossed his arms. This poor, tired girl gave so much, and her reward was a life of secrets and lies. And betrayal of the highest degree.  
  
"Then, there's my mother…" her voice trailed off. "Of all the people we suspected, we didn't suspect her. I was so shocked, I couldn't think. I sat, dumbfounded. I don't know how my father was able to time it so that she and Khasinau weren't nearby when he broke in and helped me. I don't know why my mother would…"  
  
Giving in to the temptation, he reached over her shoulder and let his hand stroke her hair once, then he rested it on her shoulders, lightly drawing her to him.  
  
She broke. The dam of steel barriers she built around her emotions shattered, and the tears came hard and fast. A sob burst from her throat as the weight of anxiety she carried finally burst through. For once, it was too much at one time, and she needed someone to understand. Needed someone to hold her.  
  
Needed someone to comfort her. Not just anyone. Sydney needed Vaughn.  
  
At precisely this one moment in time, the world around her melted away into dreams, nightmares, and memories. His arms banded around her, sheltering her from the dreary reality that was her life. One of her hands gripped the sleeve of his suit, the other fisted around his crisp white dress shirt. Her tears soaked his shoulder, and her sobs echoed in his ears.  
  
He tried to quiet her, to calm her. Holding her close as he's always wanted to, his heart soared, then sank again. This wasn't something he'd done out of passion, but because she needed it. Realizing that for the first time, verbal words weren't sufficient to communicate her troubles. It was something soul-deep, and something heartbreaking.  
  
He offered all he could, trying desperately, not to give up his heart as well. His mind and body betrayed him, though. His hand ran up and down her back in soothing strokes, and his lips uttered mindless endearments and consolations. Not just in English, he realized later, but in French and Italian as well.  
  
He kissed the top of her head, still trying to comfort her. Her sobs were loud wails of anguish, and his heart was beginning to tear at the seams for her. Pressing her against him, he continued to mumble various phrases that surprised even him.  
  
"Hush now, baby. There's no need to cry. I'm here, and the world is beyond us. Love is strength, and will get you through. Draw comfort from the pool of love, and you'll never cease to be complete." Italian and English this time.  
  
Feeling her pain seep through her, and into him, Vaughn closed his eyes momentarily, absorbing it. God, what a great obligation this woman imposed upon herself.  
  
He shifted positions, letting her rest against the curve of his neck and shoulder with one arm encompassing her. He caressed her hand that fisted in his shirt, and she immediately released it, linking her fingers with his.  
  
Staring at their hands fused together, Vaughn made a vow in his heart. All this will pay off one day, Sydney. I'll make sure of it.  
  
When her tears subsided and her sobs were subdued, she sniffled and stayed where she was. It hurt to talk, but she croaked a weak "thank you".  
  
He gave her a smile, and dropped his head to place a kiss on her hairline again. He knew it was inappropriate, but he didn't care. Sometimes the line between a working, professional relationship and friendship blended and amalgamated until they were one.  
  
She must have realized it too, because she sat very quiet and still. Finally, she swallowed hard once and cleared her throat of its constrictions.  
  
"Michael?" she questioned.  
  
He rested his cheek on her head and wondered if she was going to tell him to back off. He grunted in response.  
  
"Will we ever get to go to that hockey game?" she sighed, nestling in closer.  
  
He laughed at that. It was good to know that despite it all, she could still strive for something normal.  
  
"Yeah," he smiled. "Someday we'll go to that hockey game."  
  
"Good." She said firmly. A few moments pass, and neither of them moved. "Michael?"  
  
Vaughn was beginning to like the sound of his first name on her tongue. He grunted again.  
  
"We'll get my mother, won't we?"  
  
His eyes went dark and sharp. "Yes, Sydney, we'll get her." How could she fake it all? How was it possible that she could be so cold? So deceptive? So uncaring?  
  
"Michael?"  
  
He had unwittingly gathered her closer.  
  
"Are you just going to hold me?"  
  
"What?" he stiffened. His heart tripped, missed a beat. His mind woke up from its languid pleasure, snapped to attention.  
  
"Or are you going to kiss me?"  
  
What kind of question was this?! He thought uncomfortably.  
  
"The thought's crossed my mind." He confessed quietly. "More than once."  
  
"Oh." She said.  
  
'Oh'? That was it? That was all she was going to say?  
  
She leaned back, angled her head curiously at him and met his eyes with clear honey-colored ones. Her eyes were a little puffy and red from crying, her cheeks pink, her lips rosy. "What are you waiting for?"  
  
He switched his gaze from her. "Uh, the right time?"  
  
"What about now?"  
  
"Listen, Sydney," he spoke. "We both know there's this attraction between us—"  
  
"—Right. And it's time we acknowledged it," she rationalized.  
  
He gulped. So, his gut was right – she was attracted to him as he was to her. "I just don't want you to do anything you might regret. Especially at a time like this, where you're not…"  
  
He wanted to say 'emotionally stable' but didn't think the phrase would please her.  
  
"When I'm not thinking clearly?" she scoffed. "I've wound myself so tight that I'm bound to break apart sometime. I did, and I thank you for letting me. Now that's passed, I'm in the clear. I don't want reservations, and I won't regret a thing. I've been thinking about it for some time, Michael. I want you to kiss me."  
  
Had Vaughn been a few feet from her, rather than right next to her, his eyes would have widened, and his jaw would have dropped. Instead, his eyes shone with brilliant delight, and his lips curved in a mischievous grin. "I didn't know you wanted me to."  
  
Softly, slowly he bent his head to hers and pressed his lips against hers, letting them move slowly against and with each other. Her lips were soft and tender, and the heat between them escalated. There was a little gasp of thrill and pleasure that escaped her throat when she opened her mouth at his tongue's urging, and let him slip in to tangle with hers. She clutched at him, and groaned a small protest when he pulled away.  
  
"Wow." She mumbled, somewhat disoriented. "I got what I asked for."  
  
He smiled at her again, warmly. It had been the first real kiss between them, and it had sizzled and sparkled. It had been sweet, sensuous, and slow.  
  
It had been pleasure and torment at the same time.  
  
"I got what I've always dreamed." He said in French.  
  
She smiled up at him, and leaned in for one more kiss. Just one more, she promised. One more time, she wanted to feel him against her, she wanted to taste the forbidden with a flash and instantaneous desire. Need meeting need.  
  
He obliged her wishes, and gave into his own.  
  
Embraced and ensconced in each others arms, mouths hungrily nipping and devouring the other, they remained blissfully unaware of the presence that had stepped in the gateway to the storage room.  
  
It was how he found them, so engrossed in their passion that shook him to the core. For a moment, he watched, surprised. Then he shook his head in swift disapproval, and suppressed the anger that welled up in him. His neck and shoulders became rigid, and he slipped behind a tall crate, concealing himself in the darkness.  
  
Out of his breast pocket, he pulled a compact, long-range camera. When he looked up again, he noted that Vaughn's jacket was off, laying haphazardly on the edge of the crate and dragging on the floor. Quietly, he zoomed in and took silent photos of the two. 


	2. Picture Perfect

TITLE: Storage Room Secrets [2/?]  
  
AUTHOR: *note, author uses alias, this is not her real name* Ambrose Chavez  
  
EMAIL/FEEDBACK: agent47AChavez@hotmail.com  
  
DISTRIBUTION: feel free to archive this work as long as you notify me of its location so I can visit the site!  
  
DISCLAIMER: ALIAS is the property of ABC, Touchtone Pictures, Bad Robot Productions, and the creation of JJ Abrams. Sadly, I have no part in it.  
  
SUMMARY: Sydney and Vaughn must learn that every decision has a price.  
  
RATING: (this episode) PG  
  
CLASSIFICATION: dramatic romance (Sydney/Vaughn)  
  
THANKS: to all who send me feedback, I really appreciate it. A very large and special thanks to my invaluable (and most active and detailed) beta- reader, Elise, who checks her email almost as much as I do! (a million thanks, Lise).  
  
  
  
He contemplated both the agent before him and the photos he extended, eyes steady.  He flickered his attention towards the pictures and what he saw had him raising an eyebrow in a single questioning gaze.  
  
Devlin found the photograph was worth a thousand words.  With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he noted how the two had come out picture perfect.  Every clichéd saying he knew about love and passion applied.  
  
Idly, he thanked the agent and waved a hand in dismissal.  This would have to be dealt with swiftly and efficiently.  Or so he hoped.  
  
Sighing, he sat back in his plush leather chair, looking and feeling every bit as old as his years professed.  After many years in the CIA, Devlin knew how inter-office or inter-agent relationships were nearly inevitable.  
  
He also knew how hard they were to break apart.  
  
As he absentmindedly reached up and fingered the simple band of silver that hung from a leather cord beneath his dress shirt, against his heart, he thought of the past, reveled in the memories, and let his heart break again for the love that never had a chance.  
  
Pushing his own personal recollections aside, he looked down at the set of photographs before him, studying them, letting them blur the present with the nostalgia he felt.  
  
In the dim, scattered light of the warehouse, two of his agents were engaged in a passionate kiss, and forever framed in a single shot.  
  
The photographs mirrored what had been, and what is.  They also prophesied of the certain, tangled, and perhaps violent end that blossoming relationship would suffer.  
  
Devlin leaned forward onto his classic oak-finished desk, and let his hands spread over his face.  He let one hand fall away while the other pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought the haunting memories that flooded him, enticing him to drown in their depths yet again.  Like so many times before.  
  
Unable to resist, Devlin dove headfirst into the mass of wounds he failed to leave behind.  
  
And amidst the sea of painful memories, he realized that hers was the easiest to resurface.  Everything about her was a whisper of beauty and grace.  The moments they shared were priceless, irreplaceable, and unforgettable.  
  
Suddenly, the picture was no longer of Michael Vaughn and Sydney Bristow, but of himself, years younger, holding Grace McFalls.  The one woman he'd always remember as the girl he could never truly have.  The one he lost.  
  
The one who died for love.  For him.  
  
Despite how much he ached to give these two an opportunity to find love and comfort in the arms of the other, he knew all too well the risks involved – professionally speaking, that is.  
  
Devlin knew duty and understood protocol.  
  
And he sympathized immensely with these ill destined two.  
  
*****  
  
Jack Bristow ground his teeth together.  The photograph was vivid and up close.  There was no mistake, and it was undeniable.  
  
The woman in the picture was his one and only daughter.  It was Sydney.  
  
He closed his eyes and tried to blot the picture from memory.  Yet there it was, already emblazoned in his mind.  
  
"I'm sorry," Devlin stood before him.  "I thought you would be concerned."  
  
Jack struggled with his voice, so he simply nodded.  
  
"As you well know, this type of behavior is discouraged among agents." he continued.  
  
Jack raised his good hand to stop the oncoming lecture.  "Save your speech for Vaughn.  I'm familiar with the agency's procedures."  
  
"Yes." Devlin said quietly.  "So am I."  
  
Jack met his eyes then.  They had served the country side by side for so long, that the easy companionship between them granted each man understanding without words.  
  
"McFalls." Jack murmured.  "Chile, 1978.  Op gone awry."  
  
Devlin pursed his lips together and said nothing.  He looked at his hands, folded them deliberately.  Years had passed, and he had never failed to remember that one sweltering mid-July afternoon in Chile.  It had been humid and blisteringly dry.  Sweat trickled down the line of his back underneath the shirt he wore, leaving it plastered to him.  
  
She had just completed a brilliant switch, and was walking confidently toward him as he pulled the car up to the door where she was to exit.  She slowed her pace when she spotted him, and took the time to smile and wink his way, excited with the operation's success.  
  
In his headphone, he heard the alarm in the guards' voices as they realized what had happened.  
  
"Grace, they're onto us. We got to move," he spoke fiercely.  Her brow lifted in a silent question, somewhat disbelieving, before she broke into a run, bulleting through the twin glass doors at the speed of lightning.  Simultaneously, Devlin threw open the door and watched with mounting tension and urgency dancing in his eyes.  
  
With horror, he saw her purse, which held everything they needed, catch onto the door handle.  It jerked her back, and took her eight agonizing seconds to unhook it.  Too much time, he thought angrily, too much that they didn't have.  
  
Everything seemed to move in excruciatingly slow fragments of time.  She whipped her head backward, glanced, and found that a guard had run up yards behind her.  His gun was drawn, ready to take the shot.  In one last effort, he yelled "Alto!" to no avail.  
  
Devlin had reached into his holster, whipped out his own gun, unlocked the safety and cocked it.  But she was in his way; he couldn't get a clear aim.  She ducked and rolled milliseconds before the guard fired a round.  The bullet scathed her shoulder, deflected, and careened into the car.  
  
Unthinkingly, Devlin took the shot, and nailed the guard just wide of his heart.  Grace ran the last yards toward the car, and leapt into the seat.  One more shot went off, and while Devlin floored the accelerator and took a sharp turn, the door to the passenger side flopped wildly.  She had collapsed on his shoulder, one arm hung over his as he drove on.  
  
He glanced at her, fury and trepidation consumed him.  His eyes were wide, pupils large and dark as night.  His heart throbbed and crashed against his ribs in painful beats.  Her vibrant green eyes were glassy and held an opaqueness foreign to them.  
  
Fearing the worst, he reached over her, pressed one hand onto her back, and found a thick, warm stickiness there.  He knew that much blood couldn't possibly be from the shoulder hit.  One low howl of pain escaped his throat as he applied pressure to the wound, hoping it was all some horrendous nightmare, but knowing it was reality.  
  
When the extraction team pulled them both out of Chile, he sat by her side, face as hard as granite.  Emotionless.  He held her hand the entire flight home, and turned blank, hollow eyes to the pilot before he spoke.  
  
"I loved her."  
  
"I know." Jack had said, voice unflinching, eyes trained on the span of air before him.  
  
Devlin turned his attention back to the woman and twisted the simple silver ring off of her finger.  And kept both it and her close to his heart for an eternity.  
  
Later, he reflected upon the mission and was forced to admit if they had not been sent together, harboring intimate feelings and conducting a cautious love affair, the mission would have been more successful.  It wouldn't have been filled with sweet stolen kisses, longing glances, and clouded judgment.  
  
She certainly wouldn't have taken the time to smile and wink at him.  It had been obvious then that her mind had not been on the mission, but on him.  Her focus was divided, and the shock that had registered on her face before she hastily began to flee became a personal testimony why the majority, the senior officers, and agency policy opposed inter-agent relationships.  
  
Grace McFalls, vision hazy with love, had died for him and their country because, as fate would have it, there were reasons for rules.  Rules they decided to break willingly.  
  
For that, they suffered the consequences, each paying with their lives, but in different ways.  Grace compensated with her death, Devlin with his life.  
  
The burden of guilt he carried lingered over him even now.  He hadn't been able to forgive himself for her death.  He never would.  
  
*****  
  
Vaughn leaned back in his chair, lifted his arms, tucked them behind his head, and closed his eyes.  He needed a moment to relax.  
  
He never heard Jack enter.  The quiet click of his door startled him into sitting erect, both hands gripping the armrests of his swivel chair, eyes wide and bewildered.  
  
"Jack," he sat back, considerably relieved.  Then, immediately following, he was overcome with uneasiness.  Jack never visited his office.  "This is… unexpected."  
  
Vaughn acknowledged the bandaged sling and cast around Jack's right arm, and inquired about both the arm and the minor gunshot wound that had graced his lateral upper right flank. There was no answer.  
  
The man before him didn't smile, didn't sit, and didn't breathe a word.  His face revealed nothing, his eyes were dark and stormy.  But they had that look.  
  
Vaughn resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his slacks, as he had when he was a schoolboy wondering if he had been caught doing something he had no business doing in the first place.  
  
"I came to tell you that you're being pulled off Sydney's case."  
  
His mouth fell agape, his brows knitted themselves together, his eyes widened, and his air supply froze.  
  
"W-what?" he stuttered.  
  
"You're on probation for the next three months." he spoke matter-of-factly to discourage any discussion.  
  
Jack felt the back of his neck tingle with temper, and took a moment to rein it in. He resisted the urge to fist his hand and ram it through the boy's youthful face.  He was allowed to get away with a lot, but killing one of the agency's agents, or in the very least, severely maiming him in a fatherly rage was probably not permissible regardless of circumstance.  
  
"What for?" Vaughn heatedly pushed himself from the desk and shoved the chair backward when he stood.  
  
Jack ignored the move.  
  
"You think you can just kiss my daughter and think nothing of it?" his voice reverberated with emotion, and the office all but shook with it.  "Go against protocol, overstep your boundaries, and continue as if there's nothing between you?"  
  
Vaughn, shocked into silence, pursed his lips together and left the thoughts running rampant in his head unspoken.  
  
"You stay the hell away from Sydney." Jack warned vehemently.  "If you so much as attempt to establish contact with her, are seen on the same street corner as her, are anywhere within a 10-mile radius of her, you will lose your position with the agency.  I'll personally see to it."  
  
"This is ridiculous!" Vaughn's face was red, his eyes ablaze.  "I'm her handler, and imposing a probation on me without verifiable grounds is absurd!"  
  
"There are grounds, and they are verifiable." The absolute control he held onto quivered and nearly broke.  "One more thing."  
  
Jack leaned forward threateningly, spread his uninjured left hand flat on Vaughn's desk and met Vaughn's fuming gaze with equal rage.  
  
"If you ever place your hands on my daughter again, I'll kill you."  
  
Vaughn refused to move a muscle or show any physical signs that the threat had any effect.  Exercising his own discipline, he clenched his jaw, and sent smoldering looks at Jack's back as he turned away from him.  Pausing to spare him one last cursory glance, Jack regarded him detachedly.  
  
"Before I forget, I thought you might want to keep this as a memento." he reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a single photograph and tossed it onto the desk.  While he exited the office, Vaughn turned the picture over, and swore viciously.  
  
*****  
  
"What do you mean Vaughn isn't my handler anymore?" Sydney asked as calmly as she could manage, though her nerves were jumping, her skin felt like crawling, and her heart plummeted.  
  
Jack muttered, "Lambert is taking his place."  
  
"What?!" She snapped, springing to her feet.  "They tried making him my handler before.  The guy's a pig and an idiot.  He's takes risks without thinking first—"  
  
"—Sydney," Jack interrupted.  "You're in no position to pose any questions. Vaughn is not your handler anymore, nor will he be in the future."  
  
"Why not?" she asked quietly, her voice low and lethal.  The query wasn't a threat, but it sounded like one.  
  
Jack hesitated, and looked away, pretending to study the simple taupe furnishings of her house.  
  
"He's on probation." Another pause, as he drew his gaze back to meet hers. "So are you."  
  
"For what?!" indignant, she began to pace her living room.  
  
"Due to your inappropriate and careless behavior during the rendezvous you two had at the warehouse last night." he set his jaw, and Sydney noted the side of his cheek pulsing.  
  
He was angry with her and trying not to be. Holding himself in check and under rigid control was one of Jack's greatest strengths.  And sometimes, his greatest weakness.  
  
"Inappropriate behavior?" she asked flatly. The puzzle pieces were starting to snap into place. The kiss, that one sizzling kiss, was considered inappropriate?  
  
Not bothering with the answer to that question, she plowed blindly on.  
  
"There's a mutual attraction, and with everything else going wrong right now, I just needed a friend.  I needed some comfort and he was there.  I acted on impulse, and I'm not sorry for it."  
  
She felt her cheeks flush, the color draining from them, then back again to heat them with pinkness.  Preposterous, she thought.  It would hardly matter who she kissed now; she was a grown woman!  Why should it embarrass her to admit it to her father?  
  
"You have friends.  Will, Francie," he said evenly.  He ignored the buried, rhythmic hurt that drummed within him.  He wanted to say, "You have me." but couldn't bring himself to form the words.  
  
"But they don't know about everything that's going on.  They wouldn't understand anyway.  Vaughn knows, he understands, and he was willing to listen."  She stopped pacing to stand before him, hands on her hips.  "I don't have to lie to him."  
  
Jack stood abruptly, cutting the visit short, and effectively ending conversation.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to argue with you, Sydney.  I just came to tell you." There was an awkward pause, a brief hesitation, before he opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.  
  
He hesitated and didn't quite meet her eyes.  "Stay away from Vaughn.  What we do isn't meant to mix business with pleasure.  It often ends…"  
  
He searched for the right expression, and settled for vagueness.  "It often ends in ways we never expected, and ultimately, causes more hurt than imaginable."  
  
She said nothing, but the fire in her eyes remained as she watched him open her front door.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
He turned toward her slowly, his expression bland, but his eyes, which were replicas of her own, masked a deep hurt. She noticed them, allowed her eyes drifted to his side, where she knew there were bandages, and to his arm, where it rested in its sling, and felt guilt parade inside her. Her heart and voice softened as a result.  
  
"How did you know?  About last night, I mean?" There was a trace of suspicion in her voice, and a careful defense of the pain in her heart.  
  
"Another agent had been sent to the warehouse to report the final analysis results of various Rambaldi findings, and had stepped up to see the two of you…" he didn't complete the sentence, but instead gave a curt nod, and moved to step out the door.  
  
"Who was the agent?" she asked quietly, stopping him.  
  
Jack considered evading the question, then looked at her.  She stood, simple and elegant. And alone.   
  
Loneliness, he knew, could eat at a person's heart like no poison or disease can.  
  
"Agent Eric Weiss."  
  
*****  
  
Late, into the wee hours of the star-dusted night, Sydney sat up and dug through her purse for her cell phone.  She reached a decision, weighed it on every side.  There could only be one solution.  
  
Dialing the now familiar numbers, she rested the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she gnawed on her lower lip.  Once, twice, three times the phone rang.  
  
She almost hung up, but she heard the faint click of someone snatching up the line.  
  
A groggy and hoarse "Hello?" sounded in her ears.  
  
"Joey's Pizza?" she whispered weakly, pleadingly.  
  
Silence greeted her. 


	3. Pushing Me Away

TITLE: Storage Room Secrets [3/?]  
  
AUTHOR: *note, author uses alias, this is not her real name* Ambrose Chavez  
  
EMAIL/FEEDBACK: agent47AChavez@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION: feel free to archive this work as long as you notify me of its location so I can visit the site!  
  
DISCLAIMER: ALIAS is the property of ABC, Touchtone Pictures, Bad Robot Productions, and is the creation of JJ Abrams. Sadly, I have no part in it.  
  
SUMMARY: Sydney and Vaughn must learn that every decision has a price.  
  
RATING: (this chapter) NC-17 (strong language, descriptive sex)  
  
SONG: Linkin Park – "Pushing Me Away"  
  
CLASSIFICATION: dramatic romance  
  
AUTHOR'S SPECIAL NOTE: so some of you are appalled that I made poor, fun- loving Eric Weiss the "rat". I just wanted to let you know I have *nothing* against Weiss at all – love his character – so don't get all upset, thinking I'm against the poor boy… hehe. You'll see some character development… and then some *wink* *Ambrose  
  
{~PUSHING ME AWAY~}  
  
Vaughn jerked himself upright, the sheet falling to his waist. He was sure he heard wrong, must have. Had to have been that Jack Daniels he downed before bed… drank a good portion, but not the whole bottle… right? He couldn't remember.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"There's this place downtown," she spoke in low whispers conspiratorially. "It's off Sunset Boulevard, two blocks east of the Pantages Theatre, behind the old 24-hour Mexican food place. There's a small parking lot directly behind it. In the far left corner, it opens into a tight alley. If you follow that alley to the end, you'll find me. Forty-five minutes."  
  
There was a soft click as she disconnected.  
  
He threw himself back upon his pillows, still clutching the receiver to his chest. Desperately, he tried to clear his head.  
  
It was Sydney, he realized. She called me.  
  
The shock of it slipped through his body like a slow drug, pleasing, sensual, and satisfying. Moments later, he became vaguely aware that he was wearing a silly, boyish grin. He rubbed one hand over his face before he flung aside the sheets, hung up the phone, and went on a hurried search for something to pull over his lean, muscular, and presently naked body.  
  
He found a pair of clean, ocean blue silk boxers (his favorite) and yanked them on. He rummaged through his drawer, found a pair of stiff navy jeans, and pulled them up, buttoned.  
  
In mid-zip, he froze.  
  
Without warning, his mind was assaulted with voices of the past, calling to him, taunting him, warning him until he felt nauseated. Gripping the side of his rosewood dresser, he steadied himself and clearly heard them splinter his hope.  
  
"You're too emotionally attached to that woman!" Stephen Haladki.  
  
"You and Sydney have a friendship?… So you feel that your relationship with Ms. Bristow is fully appropriate, that it falls within the guidelines of agent and handler?" Dr. Barnett  
  
"You're starting to get a little too emotional about this… you are obviously attached to this woman… he gets to see Sydney every week, and it's making you crazy… I know you genuinely care for her. I do, too. But there is a line we've been sworn not to cross. We're about a mile past that." Eric Weiss.  
  
"Taking SD-6 down is what gets her up in the morning. Or… did you think it was all those meetings she has with you?… Were you trying to impress my daughter?" Jack Bristow.  
  
Vaughn huffed out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and shook his head once. How much did he drink last night? Then, he remembered another voice.  
  
"My guardian angel." Sydney.  
  
Smiling faintly, he slipped a white tee shirt over his head, and headed to the bathroom to wash up. After brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were moss green pools swimming in the reddened whites of his eyes. Great, he thought. I look like hell.  
  
Settling for some eye drops, and figuring he'd pick up some gas station coffee along the way, he pulled his leather jacket on, and settled in his car. Turning the ignition, he stilled his hand as the recollection of one more voice resonated in his mind.  
  
"You stay the hell away from Sydney. If you so much as attempt to establish contact with her, are seen on the same street corner as her, are anywhere within a 10-mile radius of her, you will lose your position with the agency. I'll personally see to it… If you ever place your hands on my daughter again, I'll kill you." Jack Bristow.  
  
{~}  
  
Eric stepped out of his car, and walked up the stairs to apartment 147. Unlocking the door, he found her leaning against the countertop, reading. She glanced up, and he noted there was no surprise in her eyes. The sparkle in the blue vastness of them seemed to shimmer, blink, and disappear, all in a matter of seconds. She smiled at him, coarse and artificial.  
  
//I've lied to you ~ the same way that I always do ~ this is the last smile ~ that I'll fake for the sake of being with you\\  
  
Half-disgusted with himself, he tossed the photographs on the counter in front of her.  
  
"Are you satisfied?" he growled, temperamental.  
  
"Oh yes," she purred. Her long, lacquered nails grazed the pictures affectionately, almost perversely. "Is he…?"  
  
"He's alive," Eric scowled at her. "I've already betrayed him several times, and in some of the biggest ways." He looked at her pointedly.  
  
Her eyes were dark storms of midnight, and her faraway smile could only be described as bloodthirsty.  
  
"He's one of my best friends," he walked around her, unable to bear that look on her face. Rummaging through the cabinets, he searched for a wine glass. "I got him off the Bristow case. He's on probation, and once he finds out that I was the informant and photographer, he'll kill me."  
  
"He won't." she cooed at him now. "Kill you, that is. He'll find out who's responsible for reporting him though."  
  
//Everything falls apart ~ even the people who never frown eventually break down ~ the sacrifice of hiding in a lie ~ everything has to end ~ you'll soon find we're out of time left to watch it all unwind ~ the sacrifice is never knowing ~ why I never walked away ~ why I played myself this way ~ now I see your testing me pushes me away\\  
  
He clutched the wine glass stem between his fingers. Her voice was silky smooth and husky. Her breath was hot on his neck, her arms around his waist, and her palms flat, ascending up his chest. She started laying kisses across his shoulder, making her way up to his neck. He stood stiff.  
  
Turning to face her, she pressed herself against him, placed her lips upon his and caught his bottom lip between her teeth. She pulled back slightly, and released, growling low in her throat, making in forget about the drink he wanted.  
  
"You're such a good boy, Eric." She whispered, the gleam in her eyes flashed wickedly. "Come play with me."  
  
He found it hard to deny her, so he crushed her mouth under his, giving her a cruel and brutal kiss they both knew would leave her lips swollen and possibly bruised. His hands held her wrists tightly, pressing against her racing pulse, leaving marks. He shoved her against the counter, heard her sharp cry of pain, her moan of pleasure.  
  
He felt himself hard and heavy against her, and tore his mouth from hers. Freeing her hands, he reached up, grabbed a handful of the fitted bloody red muscle tank top she wore, and ripped it down the center. She nearly whimpered in excitement, eyes dazzling with growing lust.  
  
She raised her hands, split his shirt open, popping several buttons in the process, and hungrily sunk her teeth into his shoulder. There was a sound acute to pain that escaped him when she raked her long, tapered fingernails down his back, drawing blood in several places.  
  
Picking her up, he placed her on a nearby stool. Her drawstring shorts were skimpy and troublesome, and when she slipped a finger by his lips, he nipped it with his teeth and drew it in, sucking it firmly as he wrenched her shorts down and away. Her underwear was made up of flimsy material, and he snapped the thin band around her waist effortlessly.  
  
He found her ready and wet. One hand covered her heat, rubbing ruthlessly against her clitoris, causing her to arch her back, thrusting her heavy breasts up toward him as she seized the counter behind her for balance. At once, he speared his index and middle finger into her mercilessly and captured her hardened nipple between his teeth, sucking fiercely.  
  
In response, she bucked and an animal moan sliced through her. Kneeling down, he waited for her to meet his eyes before he pierced her center with his tongue. When she was writhing with need, he rose and inspected the bruises he left on her breasts, hips, and arms.  
  
She screamed at him. Coming from her, his name sounded like a vile curse.  
  
"Eric, dammit!" she rasped. "I can't hold on for long. Fuck me now, now. Do it now!"  
  
It was then he become conscious of what disturbed him most and he found he would never be able to tell her how he sick he felt.  
  
The words whirled in his head, tumbling over the other until they were a mass jumble of thoughts.  
  
I've betrayed him, I've been deceitful, and I've stolen what had been his. I've taken his steady source of comfort and joy, and stripped him of his rightful position. For what? For this? I've turned against my best friend because I can't say no a woman who offers me a cheap sex thrills and uses me to bring him down?  
  
//I've tried like you ~ to do everything you wanted to ~ this is the last time ~ I'll take the blame for the sake of being with you\\  
  
"Shit, Eric," her sun-streaked blonde hair hung in tiny strings around her heart-shaped face, sweat was sheer on her skin. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"  
  
It amazed him that she was naked, and he was still half-dressed and no longer interested. His body still reacted to her, he was human after all, but the desire for her was gone.  
  
"Something else, Alice." He spoke quietly. "Someone better."  
  
Her eyes glazed over, and Eric saw hate in her. It brewed dark and heavy and so apparent. How could he have missed it? The despise, the superficiality, the terrible arctic soul that resided in her…  
  
"You little bitch," she stood on unsteady legs. She had been on the verge of an orgasm, and been denied. "Who the hell do you think you are?"  
  
Gently, he brushed her hand aside when she stabbed one finger into his major pectoral muscle.  
  
"It was wrong for us do go behind Mike's back, even while you two dated." He sighed, and blocked her hand when she lifted it to slap him. "It was wrong of me. I betrayed him, and now I've caused him so much hurt, so much pain – so much he doesn't deserve. Because of you."  
  
"Me?!" Alice railed. In a failed attempt to head-butt him, she yelled at him shrilly. "I never cared for him. He cared about his damn job too much. It was always about work, work, work. I got sick of it. You weren't like him, Eric. But what are you now? Nothing more than he was. And you'll never be what he is."  
  
Crossly, he asked, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I could have helped you take down the world." She whispered passionately, a thirst pouring into her eyes akin to madness. "I could have taken him down of that goddamn pedestal myself, knocked him on his ass, off his high rocker. He was a shit in bed too, always so fucking gentle and sweet. Not like you, Eric. Not anything like you. You're different from him."  
  
He almost shuddered at the thought. The way she was talking was beginning to scare him, and though he would normally say so, this time – for once – he shut up.  
  
Twisting her hands from his grasp, she stepped back. "Get out of my house," she pointed to the door. "You've done all you can anyway."  
  
He raised a brow, but didn't dare respond. Half of what she said was nonsensical and he didn't care to try to comprehend it. All he wanted was to escape, and this was as good a route as any.  
  
"Alice?" he asked when he was at the door. She looked up, her eyes sharp and empty. "Don't bother trying to find an assassin for Mike. If I find out that you do, you'll end up hunted and slaughtered… and you won't be able to escape because I'll come for you myself."  
  
{~}  
  
"You'll have to lay off," she spoke evenly into the cell phone. "If you send someone now, he'll come after me. He wasn't lying."  
  
In Moscow, Mr. Sark swirled his favorite wine in the glass and contemplated his options. "Well, then, Alice. It looks like you fucked up."  
  
"How was I supposed to know he'd have a conscience fit?" she hissed.  
  
"Mm." He sipped his wine delicately. "You'll have to fix it. The Man wants him and Ms. Bristow dead."  
  
Sarcastically, she replied. "No shit."  
  
He lifted the gleaming silver pistol and eyed it critically in the shadowy light of his apartment. He detested bright lights. "You're running out of time."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Prove yourself worthy," He used his high, clipped British accent now, just the way he did when he was irritated. "Get the job done, or Weiss won't be the only one after you."  
  
"How flattering."  
  
"Isn't it?" He didn't wait for an answer. He hung up, leaned back in his easy chair, shut his eyes and dreamed of death.  
  
{~}  
  
He was late. That had to be it. He was just late.  
  
God, she nearly bit her nails worrying. He wouldn't just leave her here, right? Not alone? That's not like the Vaughn she knew.  
  
She strained her ears to hear the sound of a car pulling up, the slightest footstep, the rustle of pant legs, anything! She almost leaped out of her skin when she heard the screaming wail of a cat and the clattering of a garbage can instead.  
  
Sydney glanced at her watch again. Nearly an hour.  
  
Her heart sank. What if he fell back asleep? What if something happened to him? What if he simply gave up on her? What if he wasn't coming?  
  
Her nerves were rattling in her ears, her head was beginning to pound. Her skin was sensitive to every change of the wind, and she drew her jacket around her tighter.  
  
What was that? She whirled in the direction of the one and only opening to the alley. A dark figure loomed and stalked toward her, head down, hands in pockets. Vaughn!  
  
She rushed forward, intending to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, the way he had held her only 24 hours before. But she came to a sudden halt a few feet ahead of him.  
  
The upturned collar of the jacket, the straightforward and arrogant tilt of the head, the shape of his body wide, his shoulders hunched weren't typical of him. The troubled eyes that met hers weren't Vaughn's.  
  
They were her father's.  
  
{TBC} 


	4. Mirror Reflections

RATING: PG-13  
  
THANKS: IT'S UP, IT'S UP!!!!!! THANK YOU LISE, I LOVE YOU CHIKA, YOU MAKE MY WRITING SO MUCH BETTER WITH YOUR "NITPICKING"!!!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE TIME YOU SPEND BETA-ING MY STUFF. ENJOY GUYS, AND PLEASE R/R..... I'M DYING TO KNOW YOU'RE THOUGHTS.  
  
[*]  
  
A mirror image. That was all she could think. She was looking into a glass mirror. His eyes were so much like hers. Deep brown and endless. They glinted in the shadows of the night, and were haunted at the edges by an untraceable enemy without a face, without a name, and without a past. God, it hurt to live like this. Lies, secrets, and betrayal.  
  
Her first thought was "What are you doing here?"; instead, she blurted out, "How did you find me?"  
  
His eyes shifted from hers, uneasy and taking note of everything around them in a precise assessment of all possible escape routes. It was automatic, and inbred in him through years of training. "I tracked you. Followed your every move from the time I left your apartment. I knew after telling you about Vaughn that you would try something."  
  
Sydney found that the night's chill could not compare to the iciness of Jack Bristow's voice.  
  
"You followed me?" she asked, incredulous. How is that possible? Why didn't she notice? Did she let the situation cloud her judgment so much that she had been careless in her actions? What happened to her good sense?  
  
"Sydney, do you know what kind of reckless behavior you're engaging in? You are taking uncalculated and unnecessary risks with your life and your cover. If I found it this simple to track you tonight, who else might have been able to do so?" Jack's voice was kept deliberately low, but it was sharp and heated. "You know that SD–6 has a special section in security whose sole responsibility is to keep tabs on all agents and report any suspect activity."  
  
"I know—"  
  
"Don't you think sneaking out of your apartment at 3 AM could be called suspect activity?"  
  
"I know—"  
  
"Anyone could have been watching tonight, Sydney. Anyone!"  
  
"Dad, I know what I'm doing!"  
  
"You don't have a damn clue as to what you're doing!" Jack bit back. "You came here to meet with Vaughn again, risking your cover, your life and his, for what?"  
  
Sydney took one step back. She had seen her father angry before, but not like this. He was quickly losing control, the iron-grip he held on his temper was sizzling to snap, and was as dangerous as live wire.  
  
"I doubled back to do back checks for you. I scoped the scene and the setting and made sure everything was clean and no one was watching. SD-6 could have caught you tonight, Sydney."  
  
Her face was ashen, her body nearly limp. He was right, she realized. She hadn't even bothered to double check her mirrors to see if she was being watched. She didn't make erratic and unpredictable turns in order to throw off anyone who could have been possibly tailing her. She had made herself an easy target tonight. Glancing back over her shoulder, she noted the alleyway. It was deep, dark, full of shadows and her heart sank when she found that there was no escape from it. If someone had come up, and she had mistaken him for Vaughn… if she had run up to an opponent as welcomingly as she had ran towards her father…  
  
She'd be dead now.  
  
"You don't have to worry about me," she told him. Her pride demanded that she say something to salvage her integrity.  
  
"I don't have to worry about you?" Jack repeated. "Focus, Sydney. Don't lose your head over this. Do not let this get to you."  
  
"I'm not!" she protested angrily. "I told you I know what I'm doing."  
  
Her retort sparked something in him. The stress of the life he lived had piled up, and the dam he carefully constructed around his emotions splintered, and suddenly.... Everything from the past ambushed him simultaneously. Everything encompassing Laura.  
  
Laura, smiling in the wedding photo with him. Laura, laughing with him over silly jokes and champagne. Laura, kissing him and telling him her hopes, dreams, loves. Laura, teaching her students at UCLA, raving about a new antique, first edition book he bought her. Laura, lifting Sydney up in her arms and gushing about how beautiful she was.  
  
Then, suddenly, flashbacks of the night of the accident. A high speed chase. FBI agent Calder running after his wife. Two cars crash into the ocean, never a trace of either body to be found. Ever. Until…  
  
Irina Derevko. Laura Bristow was an illusion. Irina Derevko was the hidden betrayer and superb counter-intelligence agent for the KGB. And he, Jonathan Donahue Bristow, had indeed been a fool.  
  
"No, you don't know." He spat out bitterly. "You don't know what it's like to live your life in love with someone, sharing your life with someone, having a child with someone. And you don't know what it's like to live your life knowing you've been betrayed in the worst way possible by that same person. You don't know what it's like, Sydney. Because you've never been there. You've never been me. And you don't know what it's like to be so blinded by emotions until it's too late."  
  
Jarred, Sydney recoiled. "What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Jack ignored the question. "You don't just know."  
  
Wild-eyed and bewildered, she stared at his back as he began to walk away silently.  
  
Her emotions twisted in agony beneath her skin. She felt them slither up behind her eyes in the form of salty liquid, felt her heart beat unevenly, thunderous against her ribs. There was a dull ringing in her ears, blood pumping hard and fast.  
  
"Dad?" she asked in a small, scared voice.  
  
He had heard her use that tone only twice before. The first time was when he had to tell her that her mother would not be coming home again. The second when she asked him if he knew SD-6 would murder Daniel Hecht as viciously as they had. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight and set. His eyes were closed, and the nerve in his cheek and temple throbbed visibly.  
  
"You were in love with Mom." She swallowed hard. "You would have done anything to save her from that accident, if she had been who we thought she was."  
  
"But she wasn't, Sydney." He refused to turn around. His voice was weary and tired. The memories had plagued him, destroyed his defenses. They took his energy and drained him emotionally. "She wasn't who we thought she was. So it hardly matters now."  
  
"It does matter," she insisted fiercely. "Because you loved her enough to make it matter."  
  
He was quiet. His back was still turned to her, his figure that always seemed to loom so large and strong appeared to be grief-stricken and fighting to grasp something. Understanding, maybe.  
  
"I learned from your mistakes. I won't make them with Vaughn."  
  
Jack's memory fluttered to another time. A time between friends, when love and fun were ideal. When he had Laura, and Devlin had Grace. He took in the present, and admitted that sometimes, the ideal was just an elusive chimera. Reality always set in and left one with nothing but the painful realization that all good things do end.  
  
And sometimes… they ended in the most unexpected ways.  
  
"No, Sydney. You won't." He agreed. He didn't look at her, but proceeded to leave the alley. "You won't make the same mistakes because you're never going to see him again."  
  
[~]  
  
Vaughn had remained in his car. He expelled his breath and stared at his Nokia phone with trepidation. 4:07AM. He was long past late. What had held him back? Surely, Jack hadn't honestly meant what he said, so why were his nerves rattling inside of him?  
  
He groaned aloud and rapped his head twice against the steering wheel. A million inquiries swirled in his head, but the most prominent was simply why?  
  
"Quel est le problème avec moi? Elle m'a appelé, et est-ce que je ne peux pas m'apporter aller chez elle? Je vais toujours à elle. Queest-ce que je me sens pour elle... pourquoi il rend tout si dur? Je dois penser! C'est... compliqué." He whispered rapidly in French without realizing it.  
  
"What's wrong with me? She called me, and I can't bring myself to go to her? I always go to her. What I feel for her... why does it make everything so hard? I need to think! This is... complicated." Finally realizing what he said, he knocked his head once more against the wheel, harder than before.  
  
Stupid move. He lifted a hand and rubbed the sore spot on his forehead and sighed. I should call her, he thought. Exiting his vehicle, he entered his house, tossed his keys on the counter and draped his leather jacket over a nearby counter stool. Reaching over for his black cordless phone, he ran his fingers through his hair.  
  
Speed dial, number 3. Number one was his voicemail, and number two was his mom. God, where had she come from? How did she become such a priority for him?  
  
There was no answer. The machine kicked in with a faint click.  
  
"Hi, you've reached Sydney's cell. I can't pick up right now, so please leave a short message after the beep. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Click. Beep.  
  
Silence.  
  
[~]  
  
Sydney stripped out of her tight black pants and let them settle in a pile in the center of her bedroom. She heaved a sigh and stole a glance at her floor length mirror. Standing in front of it, she studied her reflection. Tall, lean, and elegant. She ran her fingers over the lace edge of her bra and thought herself very feminine.  
  
Briefly she entertained thoughts of what it would be like to be with Vaughn. Sweet, she knew. Steamy, most definitely.  
  
Infiltrating her thoughts and interrupting her fantasy was the commanding voice of her father.  
  
"You won't make the same mistakes because you're never going to see him again."  
  
A chill washed over her. What had he meant? She knew it wasn't a threat. It was more command. The way he had said it was final. There was no questioning him, and though her days of blindly taking orders were over, she had shared in the pain of losing her mother twofold. Once, in death, and the other, in life.  
  
The unexpected beeping of her cell phone arrested her attention, and caused her to jump in surprise. "New voice message", it read.  
  
Gripping the phone in her right hand, she waited for the call to connect, then punched in her pass code with her left. Waiting for the message, she wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear, and leaned over to pick up her clothes from the floor.  
  
"You have one new message. Sent today, at 4:17AM."  
  
Seconds ticked by and there wasn't a sound. Folding her pants, she set them on the edge of her bed and reached up to push 3 to delete the message, but she heard a sharp intake of air indicating someone was about to speak.  
  
"Sydney." There was a pause, and she held her breath. It was Vaughn. He had called. "It's me. I… just wanted to say sorry for not—"  
  
There was a sudden crash in the background. "What the hell—?" she heard him say.  
  
There were muffled voices in the room. She struggled to hear them and decipher what they were saying. It made no difference; she couldn't make out the words. She heard a shout, the clack of a gun, a command to hang up the phone.  
  
"It's not on," she heard him lie.  
  
"Turn it off," the command was clear. The intruder had come closer to Vaughn. It wasn't a voice she recognized. There was no accent she could pinpoint in the sentence.  
  
The sound of flesh running deep into the gut or groin and the resounding groan echoed in her ears. There was the sick sound of metal hitting bone, a body hitting the floor. Someone began dragging the body away. A single gunshot rang, and the line disconnected abruptly. 


	5. Femme Fatales

Collision point. Panic set in immediately. It was like feeling the weight of an enormous waterfall cascade onto her body, one crushing wave after another. Her blood pressure level shot skyward, adrenaline manifested itself in her shaking hands, and her pulse raced against the clock, ticking faster than the fragments of seconds making up a minute.  
  
Her brain went into lockdown mode.  
  
Keys, keys, keys, her mind clamored incessantly. She found them on her dresser and sprinted to her bedroom door. Dashing past the mirror, she whipped around and threw open her closet.  
  
God! She couldn't think! She couldn't just leave wearing her underwear! Tears began to cloud her view as she blindly ripped the closest shirt off the hanger and struggled into it.  
  
Hurry! An inner voice screamed. Taking the pants she had extracted herself from only minutes before, she stuffed one leg in, hopped precariously on one foot, nearly toppled over twice before she managed to succeed in hiking her pants to her waist.  
  
Disentangling her jacket from the chair she so carelessly tossed it on, she bulleted out of her apartment pants buttoned but not zipped, jacket swinging from one arm, and keys in unsteady hands.  
  
Jamming her keys in and turning the ignition, she prayed against all hope that she would not be too late.  
  
Her engine sputtered, then failed.  
  
"Dammit!" she yelled angrily aloud. "Come on! Come on!"  
  
Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Her car never failed. Sydney's entire body flushed cold. Her nerves peaked and became aware of her surroundings. She had been trained to pick up the slightest abnormality in any situation, and she sharpened her skills to perfection knowing she was running against time.  
  
She glanced at her watch, the indigo glow showed that it had taken her four minutes to get dressed and into her car. Quickly, she scanned her mirrors, taking care not to move her head. She watched the shadows for any movement out of the ordinary.  
  
Suddenly, there was a flicker of a bright red light amidst the bushes that shielded her view of the stucco houses across the street. A series of three rapid flashes followed, and she threw her weight against the door, flinging it open.  
  
Soundlessly, she leapt out into the night, curled into a ball and braced for the landing. Moments after she hit the dirt and rolled once, an explosion sounded behind her, sending her beloved car ten feet high, riding a stream of flames. The heat scathed her body and she covered her eyes from the blinding blaze. The roar of the blast rang in her ears, and her mind spun in dizzying circles before going blank.  
  
She raised her head briefly, noted the debris of the remains of her automobile, and tasted blood mixed with dirt. She let out a short gasp and everything faded to black.  
  
[~]  
  
He had just entered his home when the phone rang.  
  
Exasperated and wearisome, Jack snatched the phone off the hook and barked, "Bristow."  
  
A short pause. Then, "Never leave your child unattended."  
  
Click.  
  
Jack slammed the phone back onto its base and picked up his cell, already on his way back to his car. He tried Sydney's phone twice with no luck. Giving up, he dialed another number.  
  
"This is Devlin."  
  
"Something's wrong." Jack's voice remained calm though his entire body was both shaken and guilt-wracked. There was no time to think of that now.   
  
Alarm and worry had taken a death grip on his heart, squeezing into a tight ball that constricted his breathing and set his skills on autopilot as he expertly maneuvered his car in and out of traffic, nearing speeds of 120 mph on the streets.  
  
"What now, Jack?"  
  
"Something's happened with Sydney. I got a call. The voice was female. There was a slight accent in her voice, but she didn't speak enough for me to pin down her origin. She's spent considerable time here or she's an excellent linguist." His hold on the wheel was tight and his knuckles were turning white. He whirled his car around a sharp turn, mentally calculating how long it would take him to reach her apartment.  
  
Roughly, seven minutes.  
  
He frowned. Not fast enough. Stepping on the accelerator, the speedometer revved and jumped to 135... 140... 147 mph. He silently thanked the CIA auto dealers for making such dependable, speedy cars.  
  
"What do you mean something's happened with Sydney?" Devlin's voice was commanding and angry.  
  
"I don't know. There were no specifics. Only one sentence. I have to go. I'll call you when this is over."  
  
"Jack!" Devlin reprimanded. "What are you doing? Let the agency handle this!"  
  
"Sydney is my daughter," Jack infused his tone with possessiveness and protectiveness only a parent understood. "I'm not going to wait for the agency takes to go through all their bureaucratic bullshit."  
  
"Just wait a minute, dammit! You aren't thinking clearly, Jack!" Worry broke through. "You can't do this alone! Jack - this isn't something you ought to deal with! Stop and think about what yo-"  
  
The phone went dead in Devlin's hands.   
  
Jack pulled up to the apartment and took in the scene while he emerged from his car. The pillar of fire had been reduced to a flaming ball and the initial explosion had thrown the car some distance from the apartment and into the street.  
  
He noted that the fire department had not yet come, but neighbors were already climbing out of the comfort of their beds to see the commotion. He scanned the faces of those surrounding him, memorizing every feature. The call could have been from any of the women standing around with concern on their faces, pajamas and robes yanked tightly around them. And of course, the woman could be long gone.  
  
His intuition forced him to accept the second choice.  
  
He strode forward, his face a mask of steel, his heart in a vise. Everything in him writhed in agony at the sight of her body twisted in the grass, one arm flailed out, the other trapped beneath her, and her head turned away from him, and towards Francie who was kneeling beside her.  
  
Guilt hinged itself onto his heart and held on. This woman was his daughter and he had never truly known her heart, her being... he was forced to admit that he didn't really know her at all. Pain wrenched into his gut like a knife, and twisted.  
  
Forcing himself to look away, he surveyed the yard and heard sirens in the background. Francie was mumbling incoherent things, rocking back and forth, clutching Sydney's hand and smoothing her hair from her face.  
  
Jack resisted the urge to lift Sydney from her distorted position, afraid that she might have broken something when she jumped from the car. Afraid he'd make the pain worse.  
  
Instead, he leaned down beside her, scanning her body for visible bone fractures and then brushed her hair back from her face, gritting his teeth when he saw the blood at the corner of her mouth and the small lateral gash that ran just above her right eyebrow to her temple.  
  
Fighting intensely for control, Jack Bristow gave into the dark vengeance that had been clawing away at him from the moment he learned the truth about his wife. It encircled him, embraced him, swallowed him whole.  
  
His blood ran cold, his eyes emotionless. He wouldn't allow her to destroy the one great thing she brought into this world. Jack Bristow would not allow the woman he once believed to be the love of his life to eliminate his only daughter.  
  
His phone rang shrilly once more. Reaching for it, he again answered in his usual terse manner.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It is good to see you again, Jack." Came the hauntingly familiar voice. "You still assume someone else will take care of Sydney, I see. Too bad her nanny couldn't be there this time."  
  
"Why, La-" he stopped himself short. "Why?"  
  
"Because."  
  
"That isn't a good enough answer." Glancing at Sydney again, he remembered his words to her once.  
  
What could she ever say that would satisfy you?  
  
Nothing, he realized. Nothing.  
  
The dial tone was the only response he received.  
  
[~]  
  
Alice swiped the mask off of her face and shook out her long sun-streaked hair. Blowing a few stray strands out of her face, she admired her handiwork.  
  
Fire was always enticing. Turn up the heat and watch everything burn.  
  
She almost laughed out loud. Beautiful, she thought. A car in flames, and that bitch burning in hell.  
  
Her earpiece beeped once. An incoming transmission.  
  
"Firefly, you missed." Spite filtered through and was sharp and painful to Alice's pride. Dammit, wouldn't this woman ever be satisfied with her work?  
  
"I got the damn car, okay? She isn't coming after us." she snapped back.  
  
"Not good enough. You didn't get Sydney."  
  
"She was in the fucking car, what do you mean I didn't get her?"  
  
"Didn't you see her fly out seconds before?" the voice was annoyed.  
  
"No! She was in the car." Alice felt the blood drain from her face and pool at her feet as she quietly made her way around the yard and stood behind another car. She peeked and saw Sydney's body in the dirt.  
  
"Get out, Firefly. You've got an estimated three point five minutes to leave that area. Papa Bear is on the way, our man spotted him on Sunset Avenue thirty seconds ago."  
  
Gathering her things, Alice slipped behind the trees and replaced her mask on her head to cover her hair.  
  
"Papa to the rescue... what else is new?" she muttered to herself.  
  
"We succeeded in capturing the second target."  
  
Alice stilled. "You mean Mike?"  
  
"This is not a telephone conversation. Maintain coded speech."  
  
"You have the 'second target'." She taunted sarcastically. Slipping into the shadows and making sure no one was following her, she ran for her car located on the other side of the apartment building. "Hey. Do me a favor, Espinoza, and get the stick out of your ass."  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
Another beep in her earpiece sounded, and Alice smirked. That prissy Anna Espinoza signed off. She was always rubbing in her experience and expertise into Alice just to piss her off and make her feel like an inferior agent anyway. God, she couldn't stand her.  
  
Approaching her car, she threw open her door and dropped all her equipment into the passenger seat.  
  
She glanced once into her rear view mirror, saw no one and turned the ignition.  
  
Instantaneously, a hand slipped up and covered her mouth and the scream of surprise that followed it. She clutched at the hand, eyes dancing wildly with fear. Her head was pinned against the headrest, and her entire body stopped fighting when she felt heavy, cold steel pressed against her right temple.  
  
When she looked into the rear view mirror again, the only thing she saw staring back at her were a pair of eyes.  
  
[~]  
  
His head was throbbing with a migraine, and his left cheek felt as if it was three times the size it was supposed to be. He couldn't move his legs, his muscles felt fatigued and painful, and his arms were bound together uncomfortably tight with thick rope.   
  
He had yet to open his eyes.  
  
"How long will he unconscious?" Anna Espinoza's voice pierced through the hazy darkness that had blurred his mind. "We need him awake when we get to the extraction point. Mr. Sark is meeting us there."  
  
"Mac hit him pretty hard," someone replied. Vaughn didn't recognize the voice, but noted that he spoke with an American accent. "It's possible he won't come to for another half hour to an hour. Depends on how strong he is."  
  
Someone stepped closer to him, and Vaughn feigned lifelessness as he felt the presence lean forward to inspect him. He felt the person's breath on his face, and Vaughn considered head-butting him, but decided against it. His head hurt too much already and he didn't know how many other men were in the vehicle with him.  
  
Where the hell were they taking him? How long had been out?  
  
"As long as he's alive." She was standing next to him. "My boss wants to question him before he's eliminated."  
  
"I thought The Man wanted him dead immediately? Him and the girl."  
  
"Mm." Anna ran one manicured finger down the length of his face, running over the swollen cheek.   
  
Vaughn fought the urge to cuss, hit her, or flinch.   
  
She continued, "If that were the case, I'd have told you to shoot him down in his house and make it look like a B&E. What exactly did you shoot?"  
  
"Just the phone. He was talking to someone on the line, and I don't know who was listening or how much they might have heard."  
  
She looked at him questioningly. "And shooting the phone alleviated that problem... how?"  
  
"I just felt like shooting something."  
  
Anna shrugged and said, "The Man's changed his mind about killing them. This man is knows something." She let her hand fall onto his chest and rest there. "The 'girl' is valuable. She's part of an elaborate plan that even I don't know the half of."  
  
Something sinister was in her voice.  
  
"But I do know the result."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Destruction." 


	6. Drugged Dreams

// When the darkness fills my senses, when my blindness keeps me from your touch.\\  
  
The dreams came in rapid succession. Painful, haunting, and gripping. She wanted to scream, but couldn't.  
  
Hurling herself into the impenetrable midnight, she fought for stability, scratched the surfaces of the enclosing walls that threatened to choke her, and slipped into nothingness.  
  
A harried frenzy that clawed at her insides, and she called out his name. Stumbling in the dizzying vision, she found a door left slightly ajar. Pushing it aside, she stepped into the hazy charcoal colored room.  
  
Amidst the sea of surreal, death-like fog was a figure. She drew near and in the small clearing, a sliver of parting between the sheet of misty darkness, was a sun-kissed head with hair matted to the scalp, a lightly golden tanned fist outstretched in her direction, and a pool of crimson engulfing him.  
  
She saw his face - torn and bloodied.  
  
She felt his body - ragged with bullet holes and moist with his entrails.  
  
//When my burden keeps me doubting, when my memories take the place of you.\\  
  
She allowed no sound to escape between her lips, and nothing more would be released from his slashed throat. The tears were fringed along her lashes, but did not fall.  
  
Instead, she found herself swimming. In a sea of crystal blue, she was drowning in some kind of numbing anesthetic where all things faded to black except one sense. Piercing her on all sides from all angles, Sydney twisted, writhed, and found herself injected and filled with only agony.  
  
There he was, speaking into the air, pretending to read the Los Angeles Times, and giving her instructions for her counter-mission. Again, his gemstone eyes burning into her own, impressing her so deeply that she was certain all things do work out for the best.  
  
The voice she knew so well, a rich, low timbre of caresses, telling her that she was welcome to call him whenever she needed him.  
  
That single touch. Oh goodness, his hands, his arms, his shoulders. When he embraced her, on more than one occasion, to comfort, to soothe, to massage. to taste.  
  
The memory of the searing kiss was still vivid, the taste of him on the tip of her tongue.  
  
And she stilled, settled against the sand. She felt the bottom of the ocean shift to accept her, and hugging her slowly. burying her at sea to join the one she lost too soon.  
  
The final image that passed through her mind was of him.  
  
Michael Vaughn stood once again in his suit and tie and in all his masculine glory in the dimly lit room they both knew so well. His face alight with obvious pleasure, eyes glittering with conviction, and his mouth forming words she couldn't hear.  
  
Words she felt, and never spoke.  
  
//And I'll follow you there~to the place where we meet~and I'll lay down my pride~as you search me again~Your unfailing love~Over me again\\  
  
{~}  
  
Alice heard the soft click of the gun, and felt her attacker press the glacial barrel harder against her racing pulse. Her captor instructed her to shut up and only answer his questions. One false move would result in her death, he assured her. Alice held her breath.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" Ice swam in his veins, and she knew burning anger bristled beneath his skin.  
  
"Nothing. I didn't do a damn thing."  
  
"Bullshit." He bit out. "She's on the ground, and I don't know if she's bleeding. You'll pay for this. I know everything about you. I know where you live, I know where your sister and parents live, I know where you work- "  
  
"-She's fine. I swear, I didn't kill her," Alice whined. She coughed once; his grip was tightening. She put on such a tough girl act, but when it came down to it, she was as shallow as thin ice.  
  
"Tell me why."  
  
"She was getting in the way." The gun knocked hard against her temple and she cursed softly. "I was instructed to do this!"  
  
"What did you get in return?"  
  
"Why the hell should I tell you?" she frowned, complaining. God, she never stopped complaining.  
  
"I will not hesitate to let a bullet rip a scathing hole in your skull if you don't answer me."  
  
Quickly, she answered. "Monetary compensation. Why else would I do it?"  
  
"Selfish bitch. Who sent you? Who do you work for?"  
  
"Fuck you." She pulled against him and attempted to free herself. "I'll alert my superiors and you'll be killed."  
  
"Never could do shit for yourself." He said laconically.  
  
"You don't know me, asshole," she spat.  
  
The arm that was restraining her neck pinned her against the chair and began thinning her air supply.  
  
Once more, he asked. "Who the hell do you work for?"  
  
Finally, she rasped, "I only know that I work for a man who refers to his employer as The Man."  
  
It was enough.  
  
"Where's Michael Vaughn?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Mentally, Alice began calculating the time it would take for her to reach down for the knife she kept strapped to her ankle.  
  
He questioned her again, this time, his voice was as steely as the gun he held.  
  
"I don't know!" she insisted, letting go of his arm with one hand and reaching for her ankle.  
  
His leg shot out and smartly broke her wrist. She howled in pain and he covered her mouth with his gloved hand, muffling her. She bit down hard, and he snatched his arm back and away.  
  
Twisting from her chair, she vaulted toward him, and he lifted his foot, ramming her hard in the stomach. She blanched and fell backward onto the transmission control.  
  
Clutching her stomach with her good hand, she met his eyes and jolted with recognition. "Oh my God."  
  
With deadly calm, he stood and faced her unmasked.  
  
"This is the last time you will ever pull something like this, Alice."  
  
She only nodded, and he noted that she was visibly shaking.  
  
Once she affirmed that empty promise, Eric lifted his arm and fired one lethal shot into the center of her forehead. Her body slithered down and settled into a slump between the seats of the van.  
  
{~}  
  
The mid-morning sun was burning significantly warmer than all of last week. Jack Bristow had not changed from his traditional suit and trench coat despite the heat. Arm still in a sling, he watched his daughter as she slept. The expanse of her energy had been expended and in light of recent events, had taken its toll.  
  
He had kept watch over her all morning, watching her fitful sleep, listening to her soft moans of discomfort. She had dreamed, he knew. A usually light sleeper, only deep nightmares took hold of her and refused to let go until they were done. She had been the same as child, tossing and turning with each unpleasant image, refusing to wake even when he shook her and shouted her name.  
  
This became routine after her mother's death for several months. There were repeated nightmares he couldn't bring her out of - both in reality and in the shroud of the mind's night activity. Still, he realized, there were real-life nightmares he couldn't save her from.  
  
When trapped in the clutches of a nightmare, there were times she held her breath and she gripped the bed sheets hard, gathering them into tight fists. She broke into a sweat, and had kicked him once when he made a vain attempt to wake her.  
  
She has whispered one name in her anguish.  
  
Michael.  
  
After that, she finally passed into a calm and restful sleep at 7:47AM.  
  
"Mr. Bristow," the agent cleared his throat loudly.  
  
Jack turned, eyes slightly bloodshot from his vigilance.  
  
The agent tried to set his mind at ease as he gently guided Jack from the room saying, "She'll be safe here. This safe house is within a 25-mile radius from both your house and HQ. Agents will be keeping watch at all times."  
  
Jack merely nodded and proceeded into the conference room that kept constant surveillance over his daughter. Three other agents were there, two of them were working and the other was seated, anxiously twirling a pen in his fingers.  
  
"Officer Weiss would like to speak with you."  
  
At the sound of his name, the agent who had been sitting, stood and extended his hand.  
  
Wordlessly, Jack met Eric's gaze and lifted a hand to dismiss the junior officer while raising a brow at the formality of the handshake.  
  
Eric dropped his arm and gave a small shrug. Senior officers were always testy.  
  
"Mr. Bristow," he began. "I am-"  
  
"I know who you are. You took the pictures of Sydney and Mr. Vaughn."  
  
Gulping hard, Eric cleared his throat nervously, and tugged at the collar of his shirt. "Uh, yes. As I'm sure you know now, The Man and the KGB are working in conjunction to, ah, take hold of both Miss Bristow and Micha-- Officer Vaughn. This morning, they were only half successful in their pursuit."  
  
"You mean they have Mr. Vaughn." Jack stated.  
  
Sighing, Eric gave up on the formal executive talk. This man was personally involved, not just another agent he was reporting to.  
  
"I need your help to get Mike out."  
  
Furrowing a brow and frowning, Jack only asked "Why? You can set up an extraction team and-"  
  
"-We don't have that kind of time." Eric interjected. "I know you're still injured from your last mission, and I'm aware you maybe aren't too fond of Mike right now either."  
  
Jack blinked.  
  
"Okay," Eric held up a hand. "You maybe never liked Mike much. But you're the best the agency has."  
  
"I doubt that I'm the best." Jack spoke matter-of-factly. "I'm simply more experienced."  
  
Eric rolled his eyes. "Look, if you come on this mission, we can use this rescue as an opportunity to acquire more intel from them. Maybe we can gather more insight into what exactly the module is supposed to be, what they're plans for it are, and why they're after Mike and Sydney."  
  
"So you want to execute a mission with a double objective?" he said.  
  
"Sure. Nothing you aren't already accustomed to anyway," Eric shrugged.  
  
"Why would you want to pull both a rescue and recon mission simultaneously? Especially with an injured agent?"  
  
Under his breath, Eric replied, "Because I owe it to them."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. I'll get Vaughn, and you get the intel. We'll both do what we're good at and in the process, we'll produce a double whammy on those bastards."  
  
Eric, sensing Jack might cooperate, plunged into the mission specs, detailing the entire plan he had drawn up and presented to Devlin earlier that morning for approval.  
  
When he finished, he took a breath and asked, "Will you help me?"  
  
{~}  
  
They fed him mush. It was God-awful clumpy soup the color of Arizona dirt.  
  
Vaughn wasn't entirely sure they weren't trying to kill him with a slow food poisoning.  
  
"Eat." Sark shoved the bowl across the chrome-plated table. It skidded to a halt in front of him.  
  
It had been some time ago they had searched him, and left him. Then they returned to unbind him, and *now* they were trying to feed him.  
  
"I'm not hungry." His stomach grumbled otherwise.  
  
"Suit yourself." Sark lifted a finger, and his assistant promptly began to reaffix restraints upon Vaughn's legs. Anticipating the move, Vaughn bolted from the chair, letting the chair clatter onto the floor on its side, and he lunged, knocking him onto his back. When he executed a side kick to trip him, he launched himself onto the table, flipped, and aimed his foot to hit Sark's head.  
  
Sark pulled back, Vaughn missed. Landing on his feet, he threw one fist forward. Sark shifted, kicked, and suddenly, Vaughn hit the floor hard.  
  
Calculating son of a bitch, Vaughn thought viciously. He opened his eyes and ended up staring up the barrel of a gun.  
  
"I see you're going to make this difficult." He nudged Vaughn's leg. "Get up."  
  
He did as he was told, scowling and secretly scanning the room for another exit route. There was an air duct and the door. In the corner of the room, Vaughn noticed a camera.  
  
"My employer has instructed me to keep you alive and relatively - marginally," Sark corrected, then emphasized. "Marginally comfortable."  
  
Irony made Sark smile as he remembered he had said some variation of those words before to Mr. Tippin.  
  
Sark continued, "It seems she was very fond of your father."  
  
Vaughn's eyes raged, his jaw clenched, and Sark knew he hit a nerve.  
  
"Sit down." Sark motioned to a chair in front of him. "Sydney Bristow has become of particular interest to me recently. I understand you are able to give me insight as to who she is."  
  
Stunned to silence, Vaughn gaped and blinked twice. "Excuse me?"  
  
"All this time you've spent meeting with her, acting as her handler, you've gotten to know her quite well, have you not?"  
  
"I fail to see the relevance."  
  
"My employer wishes to rekindle her relationship with her daughter. She is especially interested in the relationships Miss Bristow has with those who know her well and are familiar with her tendencies and actions. For example, her father, friends, and you. She risked quite a bit going to Taipei to save Mr. Tippin."  
  
Sark casually leaned forward and added, "My superior was also fairly impressed with Mr. Bristow's rescue." He kept the gun trained on him. The assistant refused to take his eyes off of him, and awaited any further instructions from Sark.  
  
Vaughn forced his face to betray no emotion.  
  
"It's intriguing to note both Mr. and Miss Bristow's loyalties."  
  
"What are you implying?"  
  
"It's quite advantageous to be part of the CIA and the SD-6, don't you think? Information acquired on both sides is knowledgeable to both agents, and also beneficial to you and the CIA - provided the CIA is their primary loyalty, of course." Sark paused. His voice became sharper, his accent more pronounced. "Tell me what you currently know about Miss Bristow."  
  
As expected, Vaughn refused.  
  
Feigning a sigh, Sark shrugged. "I will only ask you once more before I am forced to employ other." he lifted a hand, and the female agent brought forward a syringe filled with pale yellow liquid, close to the shade of urine, and smirked at him. ".methods of attaining information."  
  
Warily eying the needle, Vaughn inwardly shuddered. God, he hated needles. He needed to think. How can he get out of this situation?  
  
"Why the sudden interest in Sydney?" He was stalling, but it was the only thing he could think of to buy more time.  
  
"There is no 'sudden interest', Mr. Vaughn. She is the key to unlocking the Rambaldi mystery, and my employer wishes to find out why."  
  
The key? Vaughn thought, puzzled. The prophecy had been about Sydney's mother. so what part does Sydney play in this?  
  
"You won't get what you need from me."  
  
"On the contrary," The other agent lifted the needle and graciously let a few drops squirt out as Sark spoke. "You're going to give me everything."  
  
She stepped up, and Vaughn pulled back into his chair. He could fight him, but Sark had the gun trained on him, and he knew there were guards behind the door and a camera taping every move.  
  
He bit back a small yelp as he stabbed the needle unceremoniously hard into the bend of his elbow.  
  
Sardonically, he carelessly shrugged and removed the syringe. Sark sent him a disapproving glare. This time when he thrust it in, pierced his vein relatively painlessly and released the liquid into his bloodstream.  
  
His mind went blank and fuzzy as the drug took effect, his body became limp and his face took on an expression of trance-like quality. Memory began to slip, and his vision blurred for two minutes before clearing.  
  
Five minutes later, Michael Vaughn was babbling God-knows-what nonsense. 


	7. Chosen Ones

Eric stood motionless against the length of the wall. Just around the corner were two guards and the door to Vaughn. Across the hall, he watched agent Matthew Chavez give the signal that they were in the clear.  
  
A beep sounded in his ear - incoming transmission.  
  
"Visual comms have been redirected," Jack said. "I'm going for the documents."  
  
"Focus in," muttered another voice - Agent Josh Collins, who was on standby in a unmarked vehicle located across the street in the sleepy Russian town. "Affirmative lock on comms. Proceed under undetected surveillance."  
  
"Can't they just say what the hell they mean?" Matt whispered.  
  
Eric replied, "He just said they don't know we're here. yet."  
  
Matt rolled his eyes and both men hurried to the end of the hall, pressing their bodies against the wall. Eric quickly peeked to see where the guards stood, then quietly slid a disc-like object along the wall. It stopped two feet away from the guards, and blended almost perfectly with the white marble floor. Eric and Matt automatically covered their faces with gas masks and waited.  
  
{~}  
  
Some kind of dream. Nightmare. Had to be.  
  
Abruptly, she sat up in bed and choked on the bile that had risen. Her vision was blurry, her hair disheveled and tangled. She was shivering though it was mid-summer. Cold sweat trickled down the line of her back and the side of her face.  
  
Sydney swallowed hard and drew her knees up to her face and hugged them tight. Helpless to do anything else, she let the tears come. She welcomed them in their release, and sobbed in fear.  
  
She was rocking back and forth on the bed, and didn't care to notice her surroundings. Despair filled her, and echoed in her thoughts. Vaughn. Michael, Michael. there's so much to tell you, so much to say. Don't leave me this way. How will I go on?  
  
Behind the two-way mirror, three agents averted their eyes. Though grown men, they still found it difficult to deal with crying women. Reluctantly, one stood up and went to the door. He looked at his fellow co-workers ruefully before he opened the door and faced a startled Sydney.  
  
"Miss Bristow, I am Officer Daniel Trejo," noting the look of pure terror that overcame her, he quickly added, "I'm with the CIA."  
  
Holding out one hand in a gesture of peace, he reached in his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. Flipping it open, he showed his credentials and saw her visibly relax.  
  
"You're in a CIA safe-house not far from HQ or your father's."  
  
"My father." She glanced at him, eyes glassy and expression hollow. "Where is he?"  
  
Daniel hesitated for a moment. Looking away, he simply offered her the truth. "On a mission."  
  
Sydney merely nodded once and looked down, hiding her face from his. The scalding tears blotted her eyes again and her heart wrenched in pain. All she could think of was Vaughn. abruptly, she blinked and looked up again. A mission?  
  
"What kind of mission?"  
  
"A recon mission," he said. Seeing dismay swim in her glistening brown eyes, he hurried on. "With Agent Weiss. It is also a rescue mission."  
  
"Rescue?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am. Rescuing your handler, Agent Michael Vaughn."  
  
Belatedly, Sydney realized that the agent had deliberately referred to Vaughn as her handler. Memory flooded back, and silently she wished it was still true.  
  
{~}  
  
Jack tensed. The door was not cooperating! Annoyance frayed his nerves as he tried yet again to enter the code to open the vault.  
  
"It's not opening," he spoke softly.  
  
"Was the correct code entered?" Josh asked.  
  
"I don't make those kinds of mistakes."  
  
"No, Jack. You only make the most obvious ones." The voice sent chills up his spine and the hair on his neck stood alert. So, the time had come.  
  
Slowly, he turned and faced the woman he had not seen in nearly thirty years. Irina Derevko stood much like her daughter - tall, elegant, and with an air of quiet command.  
  
For a moment, Jack was frozen in place, mouth in a thin line, jaw clenched, with eyes sharp. His heart was stabbed through with the renewed pain of memories. of betrayal. of deception.  
  
Of the Laura that had been.  
  
With a purposeful stride, she came to him and embraced him. His mind reeled and screamed betrayal, but he kept his body still. Her hands lightly scratched down his back and then she had the gall to smile at him before stepping back. She regarded her former husband with mixed contempt and perverse pleasure.  
  
{~}  
  
The guards fell with a slight thud, and immediately, Eric and Matthew scrambled into the hall, dragged the guards out of sight, and went to stand in their place.  
  
Beep. Josh again.  
  
"Sark and his assistant are preparing to leave the room. Vaughn appears to be stable, but not in the best condition. Initiating thirty-second power glitch. Set."  
  
The door slid open, and Sark emerged. Eric fought the urge to tackle him on sight. Instead, speaking in excited, hushed tones, Sark and the assistant proceeded down the hall and turned sharply to the right. Eric held his breath for ten agonizing seconds, holding his foot in place, preventing the door from shutting and locking by only a half inch. Then Josh spoke again.  
  
"Clear. Glitch set. On."  
  
The door swept open when the power failure shot through the system, allowing Eric and Matt access when they pushed through. Vaughn, strapped to a chair in the center of the room, jerked his head up and frowned at the two men.  
  
"More questions?" he asked, groggy.  
  
"No, Mike. We gotta book it." Eric gripped a knife and sliced through the leather restraints.  
  
"Book?" Vaughn watched, dazed as Matt cut the other restraints and hefted him to his feet.  
  
"We gotta run."  
  
"Ten seconds." Josh said. Suddenly, he sucked in his breath as his eyes scanned the monitor: Irina was talking to Jack! "Alpha, get out ASAP. Repeat: get out ASAP. Bloodhound is caught. Repeat: Bloodhound is caught. The Man has appeared."  
  
Eric mumbled a curse and grabbed Vaughn by the arm. "I know you're not in the best of shape right now, but you have to run with me here, ok?"  
  
Vaughn only nodded, then stumbled two steps after Eric and Matt began exiting the room. The door began to shut again, and Eric shoved Vaughn through before following with Matt behind him. Lifting Vaughn off the floor, Eric spoke.  
  
"Robotron, meet us on the backside of the building. Corner of Kastltoff and Rutskya."  
  
"Affirmative." Tires screeched on the street as the unmarked van went flying towards the intersection.  
  
{~}  
  
She spoke a command in Russian. Two guards appeared and took hold of Jack. They led him down the hallway into a small room in which Irina walked past him and took her seat behind a lavish, exquisitely feminine rosewood desk.  
  
He was not fastened to his seat though he expected to be. It surprised him, but he said nothing. He simply let his mind work at how to escape. The guards stood on either side of him and kept a close eye on him.  
  
Briefly, he glanced over to the door.  
  
As if reading his thoughts, Irina spoke.  
  
"Not to worry, Jack. You won't be here long."  
  
Calculations ran through his head, figures, numbers, percentages. Chance. He could trust her, or he could treat her as the enemy she had become.  
  
Trust? The thought struck him as odd and incongruous to the pieces of the woman he had put together: there was that past. and that small glimmer of hope that somewhere inside was the remains of a once-sweet woman. and then.  
  
Jack ruthlessly tossed that notion aside. She was no such thing, even their marriage had been a farce. There were no true emotions to be found in her, no real understanding of good and truth. all that embodied the woman he had been fooled by was a swirling dark cloud of a pungent fetid aroma that signified the decay of the human soul and heart.  
  
God, he needed to get out of here before he suffocated.  
  
"You're armed, and I have not bothered to check or disarm you." She smiled mirthlessly.  
  
Jack set his mouth in a firm line.  
  
Spreading her hands wide on the desk, she leaned forward. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, making her features much more demanding and without its former appeal. Jack's left eyebrow rose slightly as he realized the difference. "You come for information, and I should be happy to help you obtain it."  
  
Suspicion crept up, and Jack narrowed his gaze.  
  
"After all, what is it you Americans say? Anything for an old friend, right?" Again, Irina smiled.  
  
Jack shrugged.  
  
"Oh, come now, Jack. After nearly thirty years, I would think you would have more to say to me."  
  
The words "betraying bitch" skittered across his mind, but Jack simply opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again. Finally, he spoke up.  
  
"What is it you want to discuss? The information, I mean."  
  
Irina raised a brow in silent inquiry. Jack felt compelled to answer her.  
  
"The past no longer exists for me, Irina. What was between us was an assignment on your part, and I don't care for it." He forced himself to look bored with the subject, but then snapped his gaze back to her with sharp intensity. "You left Sydney without a mother, and as if that weren't enough, you reappear in our lives to cause havoc. I think you ought to be quite satisfied with yourself and your operation. But I can promise you that it ends here."  
  
Amused, Irina smiled. "Still so serious, Jack. All work and no play." Dramatically, she sighed.  
  
"I want the information." Jack quelled the acute shudder that wanted to bristle down his back when he spoke of their past.  
  
"Nothing comes free." Irina turned away from him, staring outside the window for a minute. She spotted an unmarked van speeding down the street before she turned back to him. "I want Sydney."  
  
The answer was instantaneous.  
  
"No."  
  
She shrugged. "I suppose it makes no difference. I can get her without your help, and your protection will prove useless. I simply wanted to make the processes easier."  
  
"I will not hand to you the daughter you chose to leave behind." Jack rose from his seat. "Tell your guards to stand down, Irina. We have nothing to discuss. I want the intel, and I will have it."  
  
Control, Jack needed to find control in this situation. He refused to let Irina call the shots. He allowed her to conduct this meeting as she pleased, but Jack would chose to end it.  
  
A discreet knock on the door interrupted the terse silence following that statement. Sark stepped in and without glancing around to see what was going on, blatantly spoke, his voice flat.  
  
"It's him. Vaughn's the One."  
  
Jack turned, spared Sark a disapproving glance, then turned back to Irina, who wore a smirk on her face as she rose from her plush chair.  
  
"You know, Jack." she glance at him and idly twirled a pen in her fingers before setting it down. "I look forward to seeing you again."  
  
"What does he mean? Vaughn's the One?" Jack demanded, one hand curled into a fist. "What's the One?"  
  
Irina lifted one finger and both guards stepped up to escort Jack outside the building.  
  
As Jack was being led from the room, Irina's last words echoed in his head. "All in due time, Jack. I hold the cards now. You'll simply have to wait to see what you're dealt."  
  
{~}  
  
The van pulled up, and Jack clambered in.  
  
"Hurry up!" Josh exasperatedly yelled, grabbing at Jack's arms to help him in.  
  
"There's no need." Jack sat, slammed the door shut, and rested his head against the wall of the van. "They know we were there."  
  
"Yes, but we have to get out of here before they come after us."  
  
Jack didn't think the statement required a response, but gave one anyway. "Josh, didn't you notice I was escorted out of the building by guards?"  
  
Josh bit his lip and glanced into the rear view mirror.  
  
"What happened?" Eric asked, still attending to Vaughn's swollen face and the slight cuts and bruises appearing on his body.  
  
"She tried to get me to trade Sydney for information."  
  
"Information?" Matt glanced up.  
  
Jack watched them as they placed bandages and applied salves to Vaughn, who was sitting directly across from him.  
  
Solemnly, Vaughn raised his head and met Jack's gaze.  
  
"They say you're the One."  
  
"I've been trying to get him to talk and he hasn't spoken since we got into the van." Eric sighed deeply, annoyed with himself and with his friend.  
  
"There's a reason," Jack spoke quietly.  
  
Vaughn's face betrayed no reaction.  
  
Once again, Eric tried. "Vaughn, what did you tell Sark?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Vaughn?"  
  
A moment later, Vaughn glanced up at his friend. "I need you to tell me what you told Sark. Whatever it is may be vital to the operation."  
  
"What is the One, Vaughn? Do you know?" Eric placed one hand on each of Vaughn's shoulders and waited for him to look up again.  
  
Eric waited a beat and spoke again.  
  
"Did you say anything? Give them any information? Anything?" Eric was antsy, irritated, stressed. Patience was a micrometer thin, and the truth of his own betrayal still plagued him with guilt. Borne from it was aggravation. "You said something! That's the only way they would know anything."  
  
A blank stare was his reply.  
  
"My god, Mike!" frustrated beyond his limits, Eric took a firmer hold of his shoulders and gave him two hard shakes. "What the hell did you tell that bastard?!"  
  
Vaughn was lost, swimming in what had occurred in the small room they just left behind.  
  
For a moment, he said nothing. He simply stared, straight through Eric, so it seemed. The colors, scents, people around him blurred, faded, remained unfocused. Questioning. he'd been questioned for hours, and now he was being questioned again. no doubt, when he returned, there would be more questions to face.  
  
Did the cycle never end? Did respite always remain an elusive figment of whimsical imaginings never to be captured except in dreams or in the long- lost days of youth?  
  
There was an answer. There was only one answer. He relived the moments, as he saw Sark's face and eyes shift with his reaction to what he had said. Sark had gone from upset to shocked, to intrigued, and finally, he left in a subdued, unreadable mood.  
  
.It was all dependent upon his one answer.  
  
What had he said? What had he told Sark? Why did it cause a flicker of alarm, of recognition to flash in those cold, calculating blue eyes? Something he said. something he said.  
  
Another shake brought him back from the disturbing revelry.  
  
Staring vacantly into his friend's brown eyes, Vaughn quietly repeated his words, forming each syllable perfectly, crisply.  
  
"I told him I love her."  
  
{~}  
  
Night had fallen. Beauty was gone. Life relinquished its luster if it would confine her to go on without Vaughn. Perhaps if the Fates were especially cruel, her Father would be gone too. She would be left all alone.  
  
It would be Sydney Bristow versus the world.  
  
And the world, at the moment, would be her greatest enemy. The enemy had a face. The face was not unlike her own, and it had a name.  
  
Mom.  
  
Sydney reached out and pressed her fingers to the window, watched her heat meld with the chill of the night and form around her fingertips. She lowered her head to her shoulder and sobbed.  
  
Oblivion hugged her and her sense of surroundings shrunk to encircle her mind where the events of the last few days plagued her.  
  
A voice. A touch. A look.  
  
One. More. Time.  
  
A soft click sounded behind her. A single statement pierced the silence that separated her tears.  
  
"We're the chosen."  
  
She felt the presence step forward and lightly rest a hand upon her shoulder. She didn't need to spare the being a glance, and instead she turned and bound her arms around the slim waist of the figure, buried her face in the expanse of the chest before her.  
  
The aroma. The feel. The man.  
  
The chosen. 


	8. The Redeemer

The sparks and bubbles of her champagne swirled in the slim glass, twisted and meshed by the light of the candles surrounding her. The silkiness of the way the liquid slithered down her throat and settled softly in her belly reminded her of what victory felt like. Celebration. Yearning. Discovery.  
  
She was the first to know, the first to confirm. It all played into her plan. All in due time, she had said. All in due time.  
  
Sighing, Irina swallowed a taste of her drink before setting it down on her nightstand. She lifted the precious document and perused the material again.  
  
The second prophecy.  
  
The CIA, SD-6, and even the pitiful remnant of FTL that no longer existed as a potential threat couldn't even fathom the existence of a second Rambaldi prophecy. She possessed it.  
  
She also intended to use it fully to her advantage.  
  
The Chosen Ones, he had called them.  
  
The Condemned Ones, she thought of them.  
  
Between the sketches of Sydney and Vaughn were two strands of DNA forming one and leading to the following statement.  
  
These pictured here are the solitary hope against the evil in the Woman. A fifth element that binds these closer than blood or life can contain and overcome the Woman's purpose. This element can also bring destruction if the innocent result is used to initiate the module's power supply, increasing its power three-fold. These two will cross paths, and must entwine their lives to reverse the process of evil for only what they create can determine the future of this Woman and the world.  
  
That last half had only been translated three nights before. when she had altered her original plan because of it.  
  
There would be child, Irina frowned. And that child. must die.  
  
{~}  
  
Chosen Ones. What did that mean? Sydney silently asked as she raised her face to gaze at his. And the inquiry was forgotten.  
  
God, he was whole. He was alive. Beaten, exhausted, but alive. There was blood throbbing in his veins, life pulsing through his system, and love exploding in his being.  
  
She kissed his bruised cheek lightly, lifted a delicate hand and smoothed his brow. Her eyes searched his, no words spoken, none needed.  
  
The agents behind the two-way glass intently studied their instruments, their surveillance system, and finally, one pushed a button and the blinds shut and obscured their view of the couple and the room. Another agent turned off the power of the monitor displaying them.  
  
Her father, standing in the midst of the hushed activity, stood silent. His phone beeped once, and he barely glanced at the caller. He answered briskly. A message was sent, he was informed, then the caller hung up.  
  
For once, a sense of urgency didn't consume him. The need to know what important intel had arrived, what piece of the puzzle had been discovered didn't have him itching to reach for a computer and discern its meaning.  
  
So, he stood, silently contemplating and recounting the meeting with Irina and the success and or failure of the mission.  
  
Eric, fatigued from the rush, lay on a cot in a corner of the room. He had seen what had passed between Sydney and Vaughn, and he nearly cringed with pain. Guilt, it seemed, never rested and was never satisfied. He owed them this reunion, but neither deserved the anguish.  
  
Restless, he flopped onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. Would it be enough to wish them the best? Hope it all worked out? That this damned life of theirs wouldn't kill them all? He couldn't ask them for their trust, not even if they still gave it to him - they didn't know the full truth yet anyway.  
  
Redemption, he thought grimly, was something extremely difficult to attain when you couldn't forgive yourself.  
  
Behind the glass window, between the walls, the pair was motionless.  
  
The room was silent and for a moment, it seemed that time had frozen. The world beyond them was imaginary, terror unknown, their lives, the lies - all some kind of silly game or joke they played pretend with. This. this was real. This was everything.  
  
They were everything.  
  
He framed her face between his hands and just looked at her. Intense heat glowed in his eyes, and she met them with equal fire. The gash that was above her brow was stitched, healing remarkably well in the short timeframe though still grotesquely incongruous with the rest of her alabaster face. Her lips were slightly apart, her breath still, her heart thundering.  
  
His was steady, his concentration unwavering, as if trying to memorize each inch of her face. She slid her hands up his chest and locked them behind his neck.  
  
Vaughn brought his head down to hers, held her face gently and let his lips brush hers in a light kiss. He pressed his lips to hers again, and let his fingers travel just below her ears where her head and neck bent upwards toward him and held her there.  
  
The earth spun then, stopped for a second, and exploded simultaneously. Taste, touch, and heart blended into one spectacular energy, passing from one to the other with equal ardor and fervor. Silence was interrupted with small gasps, whispered endearments, and the sound of an occasional car passing by. The moon waned, winked, and disappeared as the two became one and the night surrendered to the sun's first light.  
  
Neither body stirred for hours long past morning.  
  
{~}  
  
Devlin and Jack, both with heavy red-rimmed eyes, stared at the message analysis had delivered them.  
  
News of the second prophecy jarred them. First, both had rejected the possibility, then balked at the proof.  
  
Letting his head fall back onto his chair, Devlin gulped hard. It seemed that not only were agent-relationships doomed, they could also be meant to be. even if it was for an age-old prophecy in order to prevent the havoc one could bring.  
  
"They have to know," Jack tossed the papers back onto the desk.  
  
Devlin nodded.  
  
"She knew this. It's the reason she released both him and me without a qualm. She needs this prophecy to be fulfilled."  
  
"The child." Devlin replied, turning away from Jack. He stared blankly out his window to the skyline buildings of downtown Los Angeles in the vicinity. "The unborn, nonexistent child."  
  
"Why would she attempt to eliminate the very thing she needed?"  
  
Devlin shrugged. Who could explain things anymore?  
  
There were too many questions. and there were circumstances to consider.  
  
Suddenly inspired, Devlin reached for the papers again. "If there is no child, the module cannot work."  
  
"No." Jack pulled out his copy as well. "According to the prophecy, if there is no child, there is no hope. Line four states, 'These two will cross paths, and must entwine their lives to reverse the process of evil for only what they create can determine the future of this Woman and the world'. The module might work, but the child gives it solid power."  
  
"So they must be together, they must love each other, and they must procreate." Devlin concluded ruefully.  
  
Meeting the eyes of his friend, Jack nodded. "This could take another year or two alone to accomplish."  
  
"It gives Irina time to build and perfect her module," Devlin added.  
  
"In the meantime, this prophecy is something we have to keep SD-6 from knowing." He paused, thinking. "Her pregnancy is going to be a difficult thing to explain to Sloane. Should we pull Vaughn out of office and put him in field training, posing as a civilian? Weiss can handle the operations."  
  
Sighing deeply, Devlin held out a hand for the proposal Jack had already prepared, but he hadn't looked at closely. "It's detailed in here?" he asked.  
  
Jack nodded once, and flipped the proposal to the approval page. Devlin scribbled his name at the bottom, handed the folder back and didn't release them.  
  
Catching his eye, Devlin spoke with sincerity and years of loyalty and friendship.  
  
"I wish this didn't have to be this way."  
  
Unable to respond, Jack briskly nodded and cleared his throat. He exited the office and called Sloane to report in. His life as a double continued while he placed the rest of his priorities in the carefully guarded shelter of his mind, to be examined later, when he was alone and it was late. and he could feel again.  
  
{~}  
  
She woke up groggy, emerging from a deep, sweet dream in which she floated upon light holding Vaughn's hand. She inhaled, reached out and stretched, groaning with the languid pleasure of it. Her leg extended between his, and Vaughn gripped her around the waist tighter, pulling her in closer.  
  
She turned to him, tucked one hand beneath her cheek, and watched him. Feeling her presence, he peeked through one eye and saw her.  
  
Cheeks slightly rosy, hair gloriously disheveled, and eyes bright, Sydney smiled. Vaughn returned the smile, leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose lightly. It was a new morning, and somehow, the world was still a hundred miles away from this space, this room, this moment.  
  
And it all flooded back in a rush.  
  
He jerked upright in bed, the linen falling from his chest, piling at his waist, and leaving Sydney to yank it up to cover herself.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked.  
  
"Do you remember what's happened in the last few days?"  
  
"Yes," her eyes darkened dangerously. "But you're alive. You're here. That's what matters."  
  
"And we're in a CIA safehouse, with guards behind that wall, who are watching and waiting for us." Scrubbing one hand vigorously over his face and muffling a groan, Vaughn reached for his boxers and hopped out of bed. "We have to talk."  
  
Hours later, Sydney was silent, the room was filled with tension thick enough to suffocate them, and Vaughn was confronted with a plethora of developments.  
  
Across the table sat a stern-faced Jack, and an ill-looking Weiss. Papers were scattered, littering the table's surface like a fury of typeface and print. Identities, one after another, lay open and exposed in the light of the room. Pick, choose, this is who you are, they seemed to scream. We tell you who you are, and now, you're a civilian. a government-owned civilian.  
  
Vaughn's head was spinning with new information, his mind reeling backwards from his roller-coaster occupation, and the events preceding this meeting.  
  
This wasn't your typical briefing. There were no tidy black folders with laminated charts, graphs, and photographs. There were no hole-punched, neatly typed objective layouts, detailed mission instructions violated with hand-written notes and bold highlighters. Instead, there were stapled 5- cent copies of a rough mission objective in Jack's precise scrawl. There were proposals, details and rough guidelines typed hurriedly with typographical spelling errors and minor grammatical mistakes.  
  
The plan was simple but deadly and dangerous. It altered everything they knew and changed the very essence of their original missions.  
  
All for a single prophecy and one man.  
  
Vaughn would be completely remade into someone else. "Deep-cover, long term operations" were the key words on the sheet before him. He would live, breathe, eat, sleep, and be an entirely different person. His name would be changed, his hair color manipulated, and he would wear cosmetic color contacts daily. He only had to choose any one of the passports, complete with social security number cards and birth certificates that were before him.  
  
Eying his choices, he noticed he would also be changing ethnicities. He sighed deeply and flipped through the pile, tossing them into two different piles: ones he would consider, and those that were out of the question.  
  
Names, histories, lives, occupations - he would have to relearn everything, be strictly ingrained in the story of this made up character and conform himself to it. As a child, it would be like playing pretend. Now, it was a burden to pretend.  
  
"I don't know," Vaughn looked up.  
  
Between clenched teeth, Jack said, "Pick one. If you can't decide, I'll made the decision for you."  
  
Sydney watched her father. He was tired, she knew. Beaten and worn from lack of sleep and worry. His eyes were red-rimmed and she had caught him stifling a yawn once or twice.  
  
"Here," Vaughn tossed the identity papers and description at him. "Mr. Anthony Luther, 29-year-old international financial banker for the United Bank of China."  
  
"No," Sydney objected. "I won't date a banker. Plus, you don't want a profession too close to mine."  
  
Vaughn tossed it aside and read the next identity below that one. "Mr. Nicholas Varanelli, 30-year-old high school english teacher at Martin Luther King High School."  
  
He looked up and caught Jack's eye. "I really have to teach?"  
  
"Only four classes during the day, morning until noon, and the entire time, someone else will be taking care of what material you will lecture on, what you'll test on, and will correct the papers and exams. You'll simply be the figure they assume is their teacher, but you will simply be a stand- in."  
  
"Will I have access to the mission at all times?"  
  
"Yes, you will wear a pager and carry a cell phone. Your computer will constantly be online, ready to receive any intel we get. Your teacher's aide will be agent Matthew Chavez and he will keep surveillance over the computer and other technicalities. If, at any time, you must leave on a mission, Agent Chavez will replace you as a 'substitute teacher'." Jack paused. "This is a long-term, deep-cover mission. Your life depends on the success of this plan, as does Sydney's. Your story is simple: You meet Sydney in a class you both are enrolled in at the university. You are both in graduate studies, and find you have lots in common during the class and multiple class projects and study sessions in which you choose to work together."  
  
Jack went on.  
  
"As time passes, Sydney will interject your name, Nicholas Varanelli, in casual conversation, thus making you known and suspect to surveillance by SD-6. Vaughn, you will change residences permanently, you will be given an entirely new history, background, and so forth. All records will be manipulated to allow for this, and you will play Sydney's love interest. Any questions?"  
  
"Just one." Sydney sat up. "Why the sudden changes? Why are we completely deviating from the original plan? Why not just get into Irina's lair and bust this module and be done with it?"  
  
Sighing heavily, Jack told them of the second prophecy, carefully detailing the circumstances of it, and pulling out the copy of the sketch.  
  
Speechless and overcome, Vaughn, Sydney, and Weiss all sat motionless, staring at the paper that sat amidst them. The lone thought that ran through all their minds was one of distinct trepidation. A child, The Redeemer to come, bourn of Sydney and Vaughn and yet to come.  
  
{~}  
  
Two months later, Sydney collapsed onto the toilet seat in her bathroom. A green plus sign greeted her cheerily as she stared at the indicator.  
  
Pregnant.  
  
Tears welled up, spilled and cascaded as she wrapped her arms around her stomach and cried for her child and its fate.  
  
[STORAGE ROOM SECRETS CONCLUDED. LOOK FOR THE SEQUEL COMING SOON! - THINK OF STORAGE ROOM SECRETS AS PART ONE OKAY? MORE TO COME! THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.] 


End file.
